Gotham cleaning service
by Argosaxelcaos
Summary: What would happen if Sawyer the cleaner from Black Lagoon worked in Gotham instad of Roanapura
1. Dont ever take a stroll at night here

Here we have the first chapter of this story. Calling it a crossover would be too much. Rather think of it as a "what if" Frederica, or rather Sawyer the Cleaner from Black Lagoon worked in Gotham instead of Roanapur.

**Note**: I changed her surname from Sawyer to Langlois. I intend to make Sawyer a nickname for her, given her trademark weapon. And besides, the world needs more badass French characters.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Sawyer or anything from the DCU. Rei Hiroe and DC comics do.

Please read and review!

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The train made it into the city, taking it´s time, as if wanting to show it´s passengers all of Gotham´s decadent glory. People from all paths of life came to this city looking for something. Love, fame, a better tomorrow, acceptance...not that these desperate people were going to make it big here. Gotham City was a lady with a really nasty temper. Tread carefully it´s streets and you will be alright, maybe even find happiness. Take a wrong turn somewhere along the road and you will be in for quite a wild ride, and more often than not, it will probably be your last. People described Gotham as "A piece of hell that came sprouting out of the concrete and kept right on growing". And in line with that analogy this Pandemonium had quite a share of demons roaming it´s darkest corners. Creatures of the dark that preyed on themselves and on the blood of the innocent.

Nevertheless the city managed to keep advancing without breaking stride for there were a handful of...people that kept the demons at bay. Those "people", or "monsters" depending on who you asked, prowled on the dark, fighting the demons, keeping them at bay the best they could. The press, never one to miss on such a chance labeled them "superheros" placing such beings above the old mythical heroes. Frederica never really understood what made them "superheros" instead of "vigilantes" or just plain "heroes". The teenage goth girl supposed it would look better on the headlines. Some of the passengers were eying her with suspiciousness as if the little girl before them clutching a cello case was an eyesore that should be removed. She had been sitting there without moving, looking at the ground for the entirety of the trip. She startled a Latin woman that was holding a baby in her arms when she lifted her head and looked through the window at the chaotic skyline of the nearing city. Sunlight poured on the seedy city as the sun came down on the city. It was near dusk when the train finally entered the station.

- The train coming from Star City has made it´s entrance in platform 6. - Said a deadpan female voice through the PA system. Frederica paid it no attention and maneuvered her way across the mass of dreams, hope, and desperation that were the waves of immigrants that accompanied her on the train. She exited out of the decayed station and tried to stop a taxi, failing several attempts until finally managing to get a taxi driver´s attention. She hauled her bag with her things and her cello case inside the cab and entered the car. A fat man in his late forties turned to her.

- Where are we going darli...? - His voice trailing off when he saw his client up close. A girl in her teens, no older than seventeen with jet black hair cut at neck length and skin so white it resembled chalk. The petite form seated in the back of the car was dressed in a goth garb consisting of a dark maroon t-shirt with a big silver cross on it and a black skirt with boots and black stockings. Her arms were covered by striped black and dark maroon gloves. Her hands where small and delicate, with her fingers adorned by various silver rings and her fingernails polished in black. However, what made the man stutter wasn´t anything of that. The girl had an horrific scar that crossed her slender neck, as if someone had tore her head off and sewn it back. Her eyes were not very assuring either. They cast off no feelings, only apathy and an immense emptiness. It looked as if a ghost had entered the car. The taxi driver was staring dumbfounded at her while she fumbled for a moment with a pocket on the side of the skirt and produced a tiny metallic object, which she pressed against her throat.

- **Palmer street...number 24... **- Said the Gothic girl with a mechanic and haunting hiss, produced by the artificial larynx the wound on her neck forced her to use. The driver focused his attention on driving rather than keep on thinking about his passenger. Frederica pocketed her Ultravoice and sighed inwardly. The taxi driver would no doubt take her through the longest route possible to her destiny. Frederica looked through the window at the landscape of the city. Lots of bridges over the streets, impossibly tall buildings that seemed to be cantilevered towards the streets rather than away, giving the city an omnipresent sensation of darkness and claustrophobia. Frederica watched powerlessly as her chauffeur "accidentally" got into a traffic jam and the taximeter entered the double digits. To avoid her mind reminiscing unpleasant memories she focused her attention at the buildings around, absorbing every little detail. Passion for detail was what made her so good at her job. She was sure someone of her chosen trade wouldn´t have any problems searching for a job here in Gotham City. The teenage goth had heard many stories about this city, and it seemed to her the best place to set up and start working. But before she started working seriously she needed a place to crash at. The taxi sloppily zipped through Gotham´s streets and after half an hour it reached it´s destination. She came out of the car and paid the scam disguised as a taxi fee. She crossed the street carrying her things and entered a run-down hotel.

The receptionist watched her approach warily, only being used to see local thugs use the establishment, not what looked like a young musician wandering helpless this dangerous neighborhood. The girl leaned her cello against the counter and asked for a room. The receptionist lazily handed her a sheet of paper.

- **Do I have...to fill this...up? **- The receptionist nodded.

- It´s the law, miss. To ask for a room I need proof of you being at least 18 years old and I need a name to put in the register. - Frederica picked the paper the man handed to her and looked at it, while the man resumed cleaning the counter with a greasy rag.

- **...Done...** - Said the petite girl, folding the sheet and giving it back to the man. The man unfolded it. There was nothing written on it but inside there were tucked three fifty dollar bills. The man looked at Frederica and back at the money and shrugged.

- Welcome to the Liberty Hotel Miss Sarah Franklin! Your room is room 102 – Said the man while giving her a key with her room number on the key ring. - Here, let me help you with your bags, young ladies shouldn´t carry that much weight.

- **It´s...fine... **- Answered Frederica taking the key and heading to the stairs with her things. She was not very fond of places that had such...lax rules about cleanliness, much less a hotel with a couple cockroaches roaming the corridor that led to her room but it would have to do. It was discreet, cheap and while the receptionist could not be trusted it was way better than sleeping in the streets. She inserted her key in the lock and opened her room. A typical hotel room. Bed done quickly, cheap furniture and tell-tale signs of rushed cleaning. She sighed and entered the room, locking the door behind her. She dropped the bag with her things on the top of her bed and leaned her cello case against the wall.

Diligently, she started to scan the room and the bathroom for any cameras or peeping-holes. After a good ten minutes she was sure that no one would spy on her. She closed the curtains of the room´s only window and started to make inventory. She took her clothes out of the bag and carefully put them in the small wardrobe the room had. She counted the money she had left. She still had three thousand dollars, good. She made a wad with the money and hid it behind the same wardrobe. Frederica would start looking soon for a more...permanent location, but until then she would have to put up with this place. She checked her nightstand´s drawers, only finding a pack of matches and a bible. She left them there and turned to her cello case. She put it atop the small wardrobe, now doubling as an impromptu table and opened it.

Inside the cello case was her tool of the trade, the one and only thing she trusted her life to. An industrial sized modified chainsaw that had a blade almost as large as she was. It was Frederica´s pride. She never understood why some hit men gave names to their guns (Female names at that!) and showed a bizarre form of affection for them. But she could understand the bond someone made with their favorite tool.

Frederica worked as a cleaner for the mafias. As body disposal was an absolutely vital function within any criminal syndicate, the business of "cleaning" was a most profitable one, but certainly not the most coveted. Ending a person´s life was one thing, but having to deal with the actual _dead_ body and find a proper means of getting rid of it was a job that rarely anyone would want.

As amoral as murderers could get, they rarely wanted to take care of the remains of the person. Maybe the longer they spent around the still warm corpse the best they realized the depth of the act they just committed, maybe they became more aware of they own _mortality_. And so, they depended on cleaners to erase the aftermath of their performances. Thus, a _good_ cleaner was a valuable asset to the society. **Great** was considered even better than _good_, so naturally, a **great** cleaner was valued more. Then of course, above **great**, there were the _**elite**_. Out of the very few that chose this profession, the _**elite**_ had earned the reputation as the most adept, the most skilled, the most efficient and therefore, the most wanted.

Frederica Langlois was the **best**.

At a first glance, the little girl appeared to be rather frail. A fragile girl that somehow had stumbled upon the darkness of the city, but on closer inspection one would notice how her empty blue eyes affirmed quite the contrary. Saying that her eyes were as _cold_ as ice was an euphemism. She was the best at her line of work because she didn´t think anything when she looked at the corpses. She did not think things such as "Maybe he had a family waiting for him", or "Maybe she just was in the wrong place at the wrong time". No, she did not think any of those things. Frederica did not even think of the corpses as the remains of a person who had lived, and would not cry, smile, talk, laugh or feel anything anymore. To her they were just lumps of meat, blood and tissue that had to be disposed of quickly, efficiently and without leaving any traces behind.

What made this line of thinking even more gruesomely twisted was that aside to being a cleaner, she was also a killer herself, and she _enjoyed_ her work. Frederica was unique as a cleaner, as she didn't just offered her services for the dead, but she also volunteered to..."deal" with the living. She absolutely _loved_ disposing of a live subject. She loved to see the panic and desperation in the eyes of the poor soul that had angered the powers that be. She loved the cries of pain and the sound of a person´s last breath leaving its body. The mafias usually turned to her when they wanted to make an example out of somebody. Then she could get really creative. Disposing of someone was a just some quick chopping but making an example out of the poor bastard required butchering him with such cruelty than even the most seasoned war veterans would feel their stomaches churn. Usually receiving a box containing the chopped and severed remains of a person made you think twice about double-crossing someone.

However, Frederica was not a totally heartless being. She would usually tape a note to the inside of the box with a smiley and a note telling the friends of the recently (and quite gorily) deceased man to have a nice day.

She wasn´t just apathetic and immune to her victims´ screams, she was totally, completely and absolutely **twisted**.

Frederica was a strange woman. She was very professional and cold about disposing of a person´s remains, but rather cruel and sadistic about the process of turning them into corpses. She disposed of those unwanted bodies with an incredible amount of dexterity and skill and her love for detail made sure that never remained any proof of anything. That made her notorious for the amazing work she did, but her tool of choice was...odd, just like it´s wielder.

As scarring and emotionally harmful the profession of a cleaner could be, it was a form of therapy for the young girl.

Frederica had severe psychological and emotional issues. She had been hurt to the point that even thinking about the memories of the event that made her lose her voice hurt so much that it was an impossible task, much less even confronting her issues. And so she did what she did not to earn money, she wouldn´t deny that it put food on her plate, but rather to drown her emotions and the searing pain that came with them.

So she decided to take "cleaning" as her therapy. A rather crude method but it worked for her. It was a profession that required a great deal of stoicism, apathy and a complete and utter lack of feelings. The more she worked, the more she distanced herself from her feelings and her memories and thus, she shielded herself against the pain. A spirit without emotions was a perfect one, free of any kind of pain, sadness or regret.

However, sometimes, when she hadn´t enough work, or if she saw something that reminded her of the past, sadness and grief caught up with her. And it wasn´t pretty. Her wrists were covered in scars from previous suicide attempts. It was either that or she felt like making someone feel her sadness and pain.

Frederica occasionally partook on bounty hunting jobs, not for the money, but for the excitement of the hunt and the chance of making someone share some of her pain. It was when she first took part in such activity when she realized that she needed a weapon. But she hated guns, for they were too...impersonal and quick so she picked what others would think too impractical and risky...for a novice.

Besides, she disliked "common" things, and a chainsaw being used as an actual murder weapon was a something she didn't see anywhere at all. Yes, the appearance and use of chainsaws in such a brutal and inhuman manner was frequent in movies and video games, but she had never really seen it done in real life. So, she decided to use a "tool" that no one in their right state of mind would have thought of and claimed the chainsaw as her own.

The extravagance of the weapon was not the only reason for her election. The goth teen had a great deal of trouble showing her feelings so she chose a weapon that helped conveying the emotion she felt more comfortable with. _Rage_. And few things spelled rage like the roar of a chainsaw grinding through flesh and bone. And she found a twisted form of enjoyment in using the mechanism in such a brutal way, dehumanizing her victims not using an actual weapon made to kill people, but an industrial tool made for cutting down trees, spitting on their dignity even as they were slaughtered.

However, this choice wasn't made without making some adjustments. Frederica wasn't an idiot. She knew that a brand new chainsaw right off the assembly line wouldn't be enough to become a fully functional and _practical_ weapon. A regular, industrial sized chainsaw would be a better option, but it still had a fair share of weak points and disadvantages. She had modified it herself, to try and minimalize the weaknesses and problems such a tool presented and she was very pleased with the improvements she made and the technical problems she overcame. The most important one would be the incredibly high risk of kickback. It was a problem that had to be tackled urgently as not even she would want to be on the wrong end of a chainsaw. If she had a _regular_ chainsaw and was in a situation where she ended up jamming it into a substance made out of metal, the chain would snag and end up with the rest of the unit flying towards her making a **huge **mess out the cleaner. So, she had a saw chain with teeth specially modified to prevent such a thing from happening.

Other problem would be that in this era, almost anyone eschewed melee combat and stuck to firearms, putting her at a severe disadvantage. A flak vest would be a good option but it restrained greatly her movement and one of her priorities in combat was to move quickly to get as fast as possible into melee range. Instead, she reinforced the saw´s guide to the point that even bullets barely put a scratch unto the metal. So she could use the wide bulletproof guide bar to cover her small frame and block bullets for a few precious seconds she could use to close up distances with her target or get behind some cover. Her legs were still vulnerable and a skilled gunman could probably find more weak points in her defenses. But under the pressure of such a bizarre scenario (How often did people get attacked by a gothic lolita with a chainsaw?), people lost their edge and in their panic they shot at the center of whatever has attacking them, which in this case it was protected by the chainsaw.

There were a few more concerns such as being able to start the engine easily and being able to keep the air intake filter from clogging up with blood and gore, but those were also dealt with and modified to suit the cleaner's needs. Other combat related concerns such as fuel intake and noise were overcome by the use of a backup weapon. Beneath her clothes she had a harness designed by her, holstering a wicked-looking hatchet. It was a very practical weapon as she could throw it to fleeing enemies and defend herself quickly if she had been surprised with the chainsaw´s engine dead or out of fuel. Besides, it doubled as a nice cleaning tool for more...covert cleaning jobs where she couldn´t afford to risk anyone hearing the noise of the engine of the chainsaw.

She slid her hand under her t-shirt to her back and pulled her hatchet from the specially made holster and held it between her eyes. More than a hatchet it looked more like a small one-handed battle Axe. She tried the weight of it throwing it to the air and catching it on it´s way down a couple of times. It was perfectly balanced. The blade was rather impressive and it had been expressly designed and sharpened to the point that mutilation was a very definite possibility upon connecting a hit with it. It was fitted with an stainless steel handle (She would hate having a wood handle splintering or breaking in the middle of a job) and a good grip to ensure it wouldn´t slip from her hand in a difficult situation. She gave an small approving nod and put the hatchet aside.

The girl took a small tool box from the case that held the chainsaw. She put it gently on the wardrobe which was doubling as a table now and took some of it´s contents out. She ordered and inspected the tools she was going to need and started disassembling the chainsaw with the kind of confidence and speed that only came with practice.

She always felt a small pang of pride when she thought of her resourcefulness. She was the best cleaner there was, a very skilled bounty hunter, she had a good grasp of engineering and mechanics and well...years and years of experience with human anatomy had made a remarkable medic out of her, although that branch of her business offer never got much demand. Probably had to do with people not wanting to put their health in the hands of such an amoral person, just in case Frederica got curious about the inner workings of nerve endings or something like that in the middle of the process of extracting a bullet from your body.

The goth put down the screwdriver and started arranging the dismantled pieces of the chainsaw in order of size. She strongly enforced order and cleanliness. To the frail girl it was a kind of mantra that gave her chaotic life some sense of normalcy. It also helped quite a lot in her job. Then she proceeded to carefully scan each and every piece of the murderous tool for any rests of blood and gore that could incriminate her, rust that could affect her weapon´s performance in battle or any piece that needed to be lubricated. When she was satisfied, Frederica continued her work, checking the engine start system for any flaws, and then the rest of the engine. Everything was in tip-top condition. She produced a small sharpening stone from the tool box and started sharpening the teeth of the cutting chain. When she had finished the maintenance of her weapon, she lovingly put it back together and stored it in her cello case. At first she scoffed at the idea of using an instrument case to carry her weapon around, it all seemed so...clichéd. Like a noir movie with gangsters carrying their machine guns in violin cases. But it worked out great until now and she had been quite satisfied with the results. She closed the case and looked at the cheap alarm clock that rested on the nightstand. 9:28 PM. Had she just spent two hours checking out her chainsaw? She opened the curtains and was greeted by the sounds of the night. It was already dark in the city. Some sirens and gunshots could be heard as background noises in this part of Gotham. Frederica bit her lower lip, she had expected to come out before it was dark, but now it was too late. She would have to wait until tomorrow. Darkness and those who dwelt there did not scare her in the least. But the chances of getting into trouble multiplied in the dark of the night, and without any knowledge of the city landscape or escape routes planned, even being defending herself from muggers could end with a nice visit to the police station, not to mention the reputation of the cops themselves in this city.

Frederica took from her bag some sandwiches she had bought at the train station and started eating them. She looked at the darkness outside of her window and listened at the sounds of the night. Soon she would be part that world, but for now she would have to wait.

Well, here is it! Please read and review! (And be as harsh as possible, I really need criticism to grow as a writer!)

On a side note, I decided to give Sawyer (Now rechristened Langlois :p ) a back up weapon in the form of an axe. A chainsaw would be too cumbersome and impractical as a stand alone weapon. If you need a mental image of it think something along the lines of the one BL Hansel had.

Well now it´s time for our heroine (I would really think it twice before calling her that) to start up climbing on Gotham´s underworld until finally working with (and against) Gotham´s elite.

See you on the next chapter!


	2. Biker butchering

Say what, raspberry pancake was good after all. Frederica was enjoying the way the flavor seemed to linger in her mouth even after she paid the bill and was walking down the street. Next time she would leave a more sizable tip for the waitress that kept on telling her that she should try her special pancakes.

She had been going like this for three days already. Get up early, eat breakfast at that cafeteria across the street, explore the streets, get lunch, check her things hadn´t vanished while she was gone, explore the streets again, get dinner, dismantle and check her chainsaw and go to sleep. Rinse and repeat. She had been able to keep her mind distracted and the bad memories weren´t haunting her. For now she was handling pretty well, but she had come to Gotham in order to get some work, and it was time she started doing some. By now she knew the entire East End like the back of her hand. She had also driven around town in a rented van so she had a rudimentary knowledge of the city´s general layout as well. But she had treaded this city´s streets only by day, she had never stayed outside when the night fell on the city.

That had to change. By now she knew the bars and places where this city´s scum met. The place where she belonged. It only would be a matter of going to one of such places and...establishing a "_business relationship_". With those thoughts occupying her mind, she walked the streets until darkness began to fall again upon the city. She always had dinner quite early to avoid being out on the streets when the night fell down. She made her way to the hotel she was staying at.

- Welcome back Miss Franklin! - Chirped the receptionist. - How are going you going with your rehearsal?

- **...It´s going well...I´ll soon be...playing in the...band...** - Said Frederica. The use of her Ultravoice made her unable to speak long phrases and she often had to stop mid-sentence, making her speech somewhat faltering.

- It´s nice to see someone so young actually put effort into something. But how come I never hear you play your violoncello? - Asked with a hint of sarcasm on his voice. It wouldn´t take a MENSA member to notice that someone who had bribed her way into a room on Gotham´s East End had something to hide.

- **...I play with a cloth...on the strings, that...way I don´t disturb...the rest of the guests...** - Said the little goth, pocketing the small metallic device that allowed her to talk, clearly telling the receptionist that the conversation was over. She went upstairs to her room. She stopped before her room and inspected it. On the lock there was a single black hair. It was a rather crude alarm system, but it worked. It looked like the receptionist was still too scared to try and ransack her room while she was gone. Good. She entered the room locking the door behind her.

Everything was undisturbed, just as she left it. She had had to resist the temptation of cleaning the room herself and leave it immaculate, but she couldn´t afford to give the receptionist/hotel manager even more reasons to be suspicious about her. She closed the curtains of her room and started undressing to take a shower. She neatly folded her clothes and put them on a chair. She went to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked like a ghost from some kind of terror movie that for a strange twist of fate, still walked the earth. Frederica wondered how could she ever had survived an attack that had dealt such massive injury to the mayor arteries in the human body as she unclasped the handful of necklaces and pendants she always had around her neck. It was certainly a miracle. One she hadn´t wanted either. She had welcomed the wound as it had signified the end of her nightmare. But then she awoke in a hospital, her neck stitched and one of the most human attributes of all, her voice, lost forever. She went mad and ripped the stitches out of her own throat, causing the doctors to put her in straps to avoid her going berserk again...

Frederica shook her head to drive the bad memories away. She needed to start working soon. She left her hatchet within hand reach just in case and entered the shower. A cold stream of water greeted her, washing her lithe body, leaving her immaculate once again. Once she finished showering she dried herself with a towel and got dressed in her usual outfit. She slipped a white shirt with maroon stripes and put on her black skirt and stockings. She adjusted the harness that holstered her hatchet and put on a loose black t-shirt with a big silver cross over the harness and the shirt. She took her boots and put them on. They covered up until the knees and still creaked from being recently bought. She checked herself in the mirror. Nothing stuck out where it shouldn´t. She underlined her eyes and polished her nails black. She calmly waited for her nails to dry and looked at the clock. 10:12 PM. This time she would wander into the night to get what her heart most desired. She put the finishing touches to her make up and picked up the cello case that hid her weapon. She came out of her room and went downstairs. The receptionist waved her goodbye and she did the same out of courtesy.

- Are you leaving this late? The city is dangerous at night miss.

- **What else can...I do? I´m not the...one who decided the tryouts...should be at night....** - Answered casually the teen. - **...Don´t worry I´ll...be careful...** - She walked to her rented van, dropped the case on the passenger´s seat and turned on the engine. She had inverted quite some money on the vehicle, most specifically on false plates and a special layer of green paint would peel with a pressurized stream of water, revealing the original white. She had to pay almost two grand, but if someone followed her she would just drive into a car-wash and throw them off completely, not to mention the false plates. She had barely two hundred dollars left, so getting started with the job was a necessity, both emotionally and economically. She started driving and quickly made her way through the city. Normal people had been substituted by thugs and hookers that now dominated the streets. She saw many drug dealers trying to sell their addictive poison to their desperate customers. She also noticed some cops giving a couple persons a beating for not paying the tribute. She felt at home in this city. Frederica kept on driving until she reached a certain part of town. She parked her van and walked with her hidden chainsaw to a bar. Carlos´. Thugs usually hung around here looking for a job. She pushed the front door and entered the place. Many men were inside, playing billiards, talking in whispers in small groups or just drinking themselves to death. She came inside while the men shot suspicious glances at her or just leered at the female that just entered the wolf´s den. She sat by the bar counter and the barman came to take her order.

- What it´ll be? - Asked the barman in a mix of confusion and bewilderment at the strange girl before him.

- **...Lukewarm tea, please... - **At this point the barman could not hold his laughter anymore.

- HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Wo-would you like some crumpets with that?

- **...No, I just asked for...tea...** - Replied calmly the goth. The laughter just got louder and more of the drunkards were joining in now. Frederica hoped they would quickly mind their own business and leave her alone. The barman brought some tea to the inexpressive girl. She tasted it. It burned and was leafy. She complained to the barman but he paid her no attention. What kind of unprofessional service was this? Frederica waited for her tea to cool down. She couldn´t drink anything very hot or very cold with her damaged throat. Was that too much to ask? Lukewarm tea was something of a taboo here? She did not drink any alcohol and even if she did, she wouldn´t drink anything that could mess with her senses knowing a fight was coming. She wondered if those men had a deathwish, or they just didn´t realize the fact that a missed shot, tripping on something or just doing something stupid like rushing head on would mean your end. She waited and eavesdropped on the thugs conversations to see if she could find any work. They were mainly talking about how the Tobias Whale had taken over the business, now that Black mask was dead and Great White Shark was out of business. Rumors about the disappearance of many "capes" and "freaks" within the city and so on. Drug deals, stealing cars...she was not interested in any of that.

She sipped her tea now that it was at a less painful temperature. It seemed like it was going to be a quiet night._ Not good. _She was about to leave and look in another place when she noticed two persons sitting in a table and a third coming in, and they in talked in whispers about how they needed muscle. She picked her cello case and her tea cup and sat on their table.

- What the hell? Get the fuck out of here! - Spat at her the third man, a hulking man in a Grey hoodie with a pistol on his pants. She ignored him and looked at the one that looked like he was the boss.

- **You said you were willing...to hire people...May I inquire what...is the nature...of this job? - **Asked the lithe killer. The first man, about thirty years old, with a ponytail and a stubble, raised an eyebrow at the strange sight before him.

- You look slightly out of place here kid. You a new face here right? - Frederica just nodded. - Well kid, I´d step back if I were you, this is too big for a novice.

- **Just tell me what...do you need the muscle for...and I´ll decide whether it´s too big of a job for...me...** - Answered Frederica. The man sighed.

**- **It will include icing people, between twenty and thirty people. It´s kind of a deserted place, by the docks. We´re looking for about six toughs for this. - Said the man trying to scare the girl away from this and keep on doing his job.

- **...I´m interested...How big is our payment...going to be?... - **Asked the girl in a mechanical hiss. The man shrugged. If she wanted to die it was her problem, besides when they shot at her they wouldn´t be shooting at him, would they? The other man, a black man dressed in a somewhat elegant manner answered for him.

- One grand each, you´ll get the mon...

- Hey! You´re telling me the disabled squirt rolls with us?! - Roared the man in the hoodie, rising up from his chair and attracting a lot of attention. Frederica didn´t even flinch, her ever present apathetic expression plastered on her face.

- **...I´m sorry if I offended you, but...I´d greatly appreciate if from...now on you refrain...from calling...me "disabled squirt"... - **This commentary seemed to anger the man even more.

- "I´d greatly appreciate..." - Mocked the thug. - You think I´d go easy on you just because you´re a mute bi...- The man didn´t even finish talking when Frederica kicked her cello case, striking the man in his shins and making him hit the ground face first with a painful thud. Most of the bar turned in her direction. The humiliated man quickly rose to his feet, pulling his gun from his pants but was stopped cold when the black man nonchalantly put a silver .45 in the table while shooting him an ice cold glare. The man in the hoodie calmed down and sat on the chair again.

- You got sand kid. That´s the kind of shit we´re looking for. - Said the hit man with the ponytail. His partner continued with the explanation in a professional tone.

- As I was saying, it will be one thousand each, on the spot, as soon as we finish the job. - Frederica sipped again from her tea. It was quite a high risk job with very little reward, but she needed the money, and if her hunch was correct, she could get her cleaning business started, aside from gaining a little reputation.

- **...I´m okay with it. You can count me in... - **This was her chance to start working in Gotham, she couldn´t let it slip between her fingers now. They spent another hour recruiting people for their cause. Four more persons completed their group, persons as amoral as Frederica was. Gunmen that valued life in numbers, the money they would receive upon ending another human´s life. They were ready and discreetly left the bar. Eight street toughs looking to spill some blood tonight. Not a particularly rare sight in Gotham city. The two contractors and three of the men rode in a blue American sedan and Frederica and the rest of the thugs rode her van. She watched them joke and brag about their guns. Typical cannon fodder. Joking, comparing guns and telling each other how they would kill all those suckers to try and hide under their bravado the fear they felt. Frederica idly wondered who would survive this skirmish. Her money certainly wasn´t on any of these macho-men. At least they took the clue when she didn´t laugh at their jokes and left her drive in peace. She followed the blue sedan until it stopped at a section of the docks that looked particularly deserted. She parked her van and walked up to the two contractors, the rest of the thugs following suit. The man in the ponytail pulled a shotgun out of the car and started explaining the plan to the makeshift army.

- Alright, here´s the deal. A biker gang named the "Street Demonz" has set up their hideout at the warehouse up ahead. - Said the man pointing to a lighted warehouse. From the noise coming from it it looked like they were celebrating from a night of pillaging. - We don´t want them there and they laughed at us when we told them to scram. So we´re gonna make sure they take a permanent leave from life. Five of you and I will enter through the back door. My partner and one of you will cover the front door in case they try to run away. You got it? - The men nodded and readied their guns. - Hey kid! Ready your gun we´re goi... - The man trailed off when she opened her case and took her chainsaw out. The rest of the thugs just stood there in awe.

- Holy Shit, sister! What the hell do you plan to do with that?! - Shouted an African American man, looking dumbstruck at the sight of Frederica holding her weapon. The rest of the men shouted similar exclamations.

- You from the Sawyer family or what? Now you´re gonna pull a mask made out o´skin of the people you killed?! - Exclaimed the man in the hoodie that insulted her back in the bar, now not so willing to offend the girl.

- Well this doesn´t change a thing. We´ll stick with the plan. "Sawyer", you go with them since you don´t have a gun. - Said solemnly the elegant man. Frederica heard her new nickname and nodded it was better than "kid" or using her real name for this. The men moved out in silence. "Ponytail", Frederica and four thugs moved around an abandoned building with serious symptoms of urban decay and reached the back door of the warehouse. They crowded around it and Ponytail started giving instructions.

- Well, I´ll blow the lock, you kick it open, - Said pointing at Hoodie. - And the rest of you quickly barge in, got that? Well, lets do this. - He pointed his shotgun and blew the lock apart. Hoodie quickly kicked the door and they entered the warehouse. Sawyer pulled the cord that started the engine and her tool purred in return. She loved this moment, when the terror had overtaken her victims for a second or two, while the new situation made way into the brain of the poor souls that confronted her. She made her best work during those seconds. About twenty-three bikers looked surprised at having their party crashed. Her allies started shooting and downed a biker as he turned around to see what happened. She quickly ran up to a biker that still held a beer bottle in his hands, her chainsaw revved up and roaring like a hellhound and brought it down on the sorry bastard. Blood and gore sprayed everywhere as tungsten carbide teeth tore through flesh and bone, the biker´s _chilling screams_ drowned out in the raging sound the chainsaw made as it quickly (and messily) sawed him in two, from the left shoulder to his right hip. Sawyer´s soft and pale lips were now slightly twisted in a sadistic smile, one of the few emotions that ever surfaced on the lithe killer´s face. She had missed the feeling of ending a man´s life in such a cruel and sadistic way. It was so much better than guns, more...intimate, like a _kiss_ between lovers. It was cruel, it was brutal, and unnecessarily messy but she loved it. It was an act of pure sadism laced with zeal. She quickly looked at her next victim, the coldness of her glare making him stagger back. She charged at him while the rest of the bikers snapped out of their initial stupor and pulled out their weapons. He was in the middle of pulling his gun when she ran him through and held him like a human shield, moving aside to make easier for her allies to open fire. A quick look confirmed her that two of the bikers had already died. Four if you included the ones Sawyer killed. She kicked the mangled corpse out of her saw and hid behind some crates. One of the bikers passed by, shooting his gun at her allies and she brought her weapon down on his arms, severing them in a moment´s notice. She used the saw´s guiding bar as shield and charged at a pair of bikers further away. The one closest to her panicked and shot without aiming a barrage of lead at her. She felt the bullets ricochet on her chainsaw and kept on advancing swiftly. The biker farthest from her dropped to the floor when he took a shotgun blast to the chest, probably from Ponytail. The biker took a step back and tripped on a bike, falling to the floor where the goth girl mercilessly gored him. She ducked and hid behind the mass of bikes that were parked inside the warehouse, bullets hitting the metal vehicles that protected her. She revved up her chainsaw to take some of the biker´s attention while her "friends" advanced. She looked at them. Three of them were missing. Hoodie and and Blackie were screaming obscenities and firing blindly from behind some bikes. Ponytail was reloading his shotgun behind some crates.

The bikers were firing with all they had behind a knocked over steel table and some scattered boxes and bikes. The bikers had a pretty good cover. There were about ten bikers left shouting threats and firing wildly calculated the goth girl. They had to take them down before they decided to use the catwalks to get the higher position and easily gun them down. Ponytail shouted her nickname. Sawyer looked at him and nodded. He came out of his cover firing quickly, Hoodie and Blackie mimicking him, making the bikers lower their heads. Sawyer took this as her cue and made an impossibly quick dash to the steel table jumping over it and wildly slashing with her chainsaw, severing some limbs and a head with a terror expression forever etched on his bloodied face. One of the men jumped out of her range to be gunned down, again by Ponytail. Quite probably he was a professional killer, not like those thugs that had made the brunt of their team. When will people learn that they put the sights on the top of the gun for a reason...firing your gun sideways might look cool but it was terribly inaccurate, and if the caliber was weak, chances were that the gun would jam. She would never understand why people didn´t use blades more frequently in combat.

Sawyer was finishing cutting one of the entrenched men when one of the men from the last group of bikers trained his gun on her. She couldn´t get her chainsaw out of her victim fast enough to use it as a shield, so she had to jump behind the table to save herself, leaving her weapon of choice lodged in the gut of a dead biker. She peeked over the table and had to duck when a hail of bullets whizzed past her. Ponytail slided on the floor and took cover alongside her.

- Holy shit, Sawyer! You have gored almost half of these shitheads! Leave some for us! - Praised Ponytail as she took her hatchet out of her holster. - There are about six of these suckers left! - He looked as four of them tried to flee through the front door. Sharp detonations could be heard from the outside. - Well more like two of them now that Jimmy has gunned those cowardly punks... You ready Sawyer? - The girl nodded, getting a firmer grip on her hatchet. He turned to Blackie and Hoodie. - YOU TWO? - Shouted Ponytail above the shootout noise. He got an affirmative shout from behind a crate. - GO!! - The hired killers raised their weapons and fired towards the final survivors, gunning them down before she could do anything.

- Alright, we´re done here right? - Asked Hoodie, clearly trembling from all the tension of the fight bleeding out of him. Ponytail nodded while taking of his jacket and dangling it in front of the killzone of his friend.

- Don´t shoot, it´s me. - The elegant man, apparently named Jimmy came out of his cover, holstering his gun, accompanied by another of the thugs.

- Done?

- Yeah. - Sawyer recovered her chainsaw from the still warm corpse and approached the two men. Jimmy looked at her and reached for his pocket, drawing a bundle of bills and handing it to the girl. She weighed it on her hand and pocketed it and drew her ultravoice.

- **You want this...place to smuggle drugs...in, right? - **She asked the men which looked at her puzzled.

- Look girl, you´ve been a real helper, but that is none of your business.

- **I can clean...this mess for...a price and you...could start using it right away. Not attracting cops or...the bat...** - The last word made the grown men squirm in place. Jimmy looked confused for a moment and drew a cellphone and called his boss. About two minutes later Jimmy looked at her and conceded. Sawyer threw her keys at Ponytail man and instructed him to bring her van. She looked at the battleground, and sighed. It was going to be a looong night.


End file.
